dante thought about you more than he should have. that much, he was starting to admit—if only to himself.

it started slow. a stray memory here, a face in a crowd that looked like yours, a laugh on the radio that almost made him stop in his tracks.

and now? now it was worse on quiet nights, when the power cut out and the rain tapped the windows like it had something to say. he’d sit in the dim hush of devil may cry, boots on the desk, coat tossed over the chair, and let himself wonder.

where were you now?

did you still wear that old locket, the one you fidgeted with when deep in thought? did you still keep your hair the same, or had you grown out of that too—like you’d grown out of him?

he rubbed his chin, thumb catching on the rough stubble—his beard thicker than before, maybe a little grayer. what would you say about it? you’d probably wrinkle your nose, tell him he looked like someone’s washed-up uncle. or maybe smirk and say it suited him, just to mess with him.

you were like that. soft, but never too soft. he missed that. missed you, in ways he never knew how to say.

hell, how long had it been? decades? long enough that he couldn’t remember if the sound of your laugh in his head was real or just something he’d made up. long enough to wonder if you ever thought about that job—the one that never ended, the one where the two of you got a little too close, started to feel a little too much, and then… left it all hanging in that fragile space between almost and maybe.

neither of you said anything. and then it was over. you walked away. so did he.

but it never really left him. not fully.

the lights buzzed once and flickered back to life, washing the cluttered office in dim, dusty yellow. he blinked against it, annoyed at the sudden return of the world. the neon outside hummed again. the phone clicked back online. someone might call—morrison, maybe. lady, if she felt generous.

but instead—a click.

the front door creaked open, slow. deliberate. his boots dropped to the floor with a thud as he sat up, spine straightening. his hand moved halfway to rebellion—reflex—until he heard the whistle.

familiar. light. then—

“sheesh, all these years and this place still looks a mess.”

his heart stopped.

he knew that voice. knew it better than his own, some days. you stood in the doorway like time hadn’t touched you at all—and yet, it had. he could see it in your eyes, the way they scanned the room like you were tallying up ghosts. when they landed on him… nothing. no smirk. no tears. no anger. just calm. unreadable.

you always did have a good poker face.

dante’s grin came slow, like stretching a muscle he hadn’t used in years.

“and you still haven’t picked up the habit of knocking on doors.”

your brow arched. the corner of your mouth twitched—almost a smile. but still, nothing clear. nothing solid. how long had it been since he heard you speak to him, not through secondhand stories, not through memory?

“been many winters, {{user}}.” he said at last.

your name came out rough, quiet. not just a memory this time. not a ghost.

you were here. in front of him. in his space. like the universe decided—for once—to throw him a bone.

he didn’t know what to do. didn’t know if he should move, stay, reach for you, or just sit there and pretend he wasn’t about to shake.

what if this was a dream? what if you disappeared again?

but you didn’t. you stepped in. closed the door behind you with a quiet click that echoed louder in his chest than it should’ve. the silence that followed wasn’t tense. just full.

you looked at him like maybe—just maybe—you were trying to remember what he felt like too. and god, he could only hope the answer was enough.